


Stumbling Steps

by JPeterson



Series: Stirring [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:44:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPeterson/pseuds/JPeterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor quite literally has one foot out the door. Josephine is chiefly aware of being under the full weight of that brilliant, curious gaze, and takes care to keep her expression as non-committal as she can because it's so rare for them to get the chance to spend any amount of time alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stumbling Steps

**Author's Note:**

> Still originally posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13890.html?thread=56045890#t56045890) as a k-meme fill, and I most assuredly had _Stumblin' In_ stuck in my head all the way through writing this.

Neither an old, Antivan favorite or new addition to a well-known series is managing to hold her attention at the moment. Not because the room is too loud – the only sounds are those of her own breathing and the slight whistle of the early evening breeze by a crack in the window – but rather because her mind refuses to still, no matter what she feeds it. Even falling asleep is becoming difficult.  
  
Of course, she isn't so much looking for a distraction from her responsibilities as she is for one from the mild frustration that she's feeling, which is presumably the reason. Though the past while has certainly been entertaining, the Inquisitor is either considerably more thickheaded than previously imagined, or her own, increasingly less-than-subtle hints are being willfully ignored.  
  
Josephine is reasonably certain that it's more of the latter, and lowers the book and its blur of words into her lap with a sigh. There seems to be no middle ground when it comes to her attempts to flirt, though she does allow that she's never been particularly skilled in that art, herself; at least not when there's actual weight behind her words. Either her comments whiz cheerfully over the Inquisitor's head, or - when she tries to be a little more forward – they make the her visibly uncomfortable, and irreversibly lead to Trevelyan excusing herself.  
  
And really, that's a perfectly understandable response, given the concerns she overheard that one night. The trouble is that she doesn't know how to _alleviate_ those concerns without revealing that she's aware of them in the first place, and that... no, she doubts that would be a sound idea. For the moment, at least; she really does need to admit it at some point, because while secrets are a marketable good in the Game, in matters of the heart, they can only ever lead to trouble.  
  
Still, not now. Ideally not until they've reached a point where the Inquisitor is comfortable enough that the knowledge won't cause her anything but perhaps mild outrage, though actually reaching that point could very well take an age on its own, given the current, total lack of progress.  
  
Josephine sighs again, and closes her eyes as she rubs at her temple with two fingers. It would, perhaps, be easier if she had more experience in this particular area, but any previous encounters she's had have been ones where she was the one being chased, rather than the one attempting the chasing.  
  
Attempting, and apparently failing _quite_ spectacularly, she considers with a faint, annoyed wrinkle of her nose.  
  
She freely admits to herself that there is a certain amount of... excitement, she supposes, in being the one on this side of the coin for a change; one that thankfully outweighs the frustration of being wordlessly rebuffed at every turn. However, it doesn't quite negate the sting of dismissal; the confused flutter in her chest that whispers ever-louder that if they both truly want this, then why is the Inquisitor being so difficult? Has she overestimated what Trevelyan feels; perhaps so much that what truly lies beneath that usually calm surface is no more than passing interest?  
  
Maker, but she hopes that isn't the case, because there's no denying that she herself is falling both hard and fast. Enough, in fact, that she wonders why none of her books truly manage to describe what it feels like; why none of them mention how no more than the lingering scent of Trevelyan's skin is enough to make her hands tremble, or how startlingly easy it's become for a single glance from those eyes to make her breathing stutter.  
  
They also don't mention how the sound of Trevelyan's footsteps have become unerringly distinct, and Josephine supposes that if she were physically able, she would perk her ears when she hears them. Such as right now, she realizes, and focuses her gaze on the closed door and her hearing on the hallway beyond.

It isn't that the Inquisitor is particularly loud when she moves; in fact, she's remarkably light-footed. There is, however, a certain cadence to her steps; a rhythm of heel-toe encased in sturdy leather that automatically draws Josephine's attention, no matter how faint the resulting noise is. It grows more audible, of course, as the steps continue down the hall and approach, and Josephine briefly wonders if Trevelyan is looking for her before reminding herself that if she was, she'd be looking in her office or by her quarters, and not in the still-empty corners of Skyhold.  
  
Still, the steps pause outside the door, and Josephine speaks up just as the handle turns fully.  
  
“Good evening, Inquisitor.”  
  
Perhaps predictably, her peaceful greeting startles Trevelyan enough that she lurches, and she ends up banging into the door with a hollow-sounding _whump_ when she tries to both fling it open and yank it shut all at once.  
  
“... urngh.” The fingers that aren't curled around the door handle come up to rub at the Inquisitor's reddening forehead. “Good evening, Ambassador,” she groans softly, and cracks one eye open. “I wasn't expecting to find anyone in here.”  
  
 _Clearly_ , Josephine thinks but doesn't say. Instead, she closes her book around one finger and studies her visitor sympathetically. “I apologize if I startled you, My Lady. Are you alright?”  
  
“Fine, fine,” the other woman waves her off with a chuckle. “If things have to go bump in the night around here, I'd rather my pride take the bruising.” There's a brief moment of that sometimes-ease between them that's at once both so comforting and so terrifying; a second where they're smiling into each others' eyes... and then Trevelyan looks away. “I'm... sorry if I'm interrupting,” she offers. “I saw the light from under the door and wondered if the workers had left a candle lit.”  
  
“Ah.” Josephine's smile widens a little. “No, nothing so absentminded; I merely like to come here sometimes. To unwind, I suppose.”  
  
“You need to do that?” is the confused response, and she can't quite decide if she should feel flattered or vaguely insulted.  
  
“I'm gratified that you think me such a natural at diplomacy,” she ends up saying, and settles her chin on top of a loosely curled fist while her elbow finds purchase on the armrest of the worn recliner she's settled herself into. “In truth, I need a few moments every now and then to collect myself.” Since she can't remember a word she read anyway, Josephine slips her finger free of the book and lifts it up. “Usually by reading.”  
  
“Oh,” is all Trevelyan has to say to that, and so the silence between them lengthens, with Josephine trying to gain a feel for the overall mood and the Inquisitor looking at anything but her.  
  
She's not a hard woman to read, Josephine determines, and takes in the occasional shuffle of booted feet, the slow, repeated switch of her hands from her back to her front to her sides, and the way in which she constantly draws a breath as if to speak... and then doesn't. No, it's fairly obvious that Trevelyan is wanting to say something, but making a guess as to exactly what that something _is_ does prove to be a challenge.  
  
“I--” Trevelyan starts off strong, but visibly deflates when their eyes meet. “I should probably go.”  
  
“Would you like to join me?” Josephine offers instead, and perhaps sounds a little too breathless and a little too eager when she gestures towards the other, available chair. Trevelyan halts, however, and though her expression is a cross between surprise and distinct hesitance, Josephine continues. “I'm assuming that you came here, too, for some peace? I do have an extra novel, if you'd like to sit down,” she explains, and nods towards the spare book resting on the low table.  
  
More silence, now, and the Inquisitor quite literally has one foot out the door. Josephine is chiefly aware of being under the full weight of that brilliant, curious gaze, and takes care to keep her expression as non-committal as she can because it's so rare for them to get the chance to spend any amount of time alone. At the same time, she certainly isn't about to force it, either, even if the questions are burning at the tip of her tongue and her heart is beating an unsteady staccato against her ribs.

It is, Josephine considers, not entirely unlike coaxing a stray kitten into approaching you. That thought makes her have to suppress a smile, because given how the Inquisitor tears headlong into danger at the bare drop of a hat, 'skittish' really isn't a descriptor she's ever needed to use before.  
  
”Please,” she then says out loud since Trevelyan is still standing, and allows the smile to form when a sigh accompanies the drop of that lean frame into the free seat. ”Do I make for such a poor choice in company, Inquisitor?” she needles gently. ”How unfortunate a notion, given my duties.”  
  
“Wha-- no!” The denial is immediate, and if she's honest with herself, reassuring in its startled honesty. “No, that's n-- that's not it,” Trevelyan promises; voice softer now as she exhales slowly. “You're... perfectly charming company.”  
  
“I'm pleased to know that.” And she is; not that she hasn't known it before – it'd be a rather sorry ambassador who couldn't charm anyone – but it somehow means more to have confirmation that even the Inquisitor isn't immune. “May I ask, then, what the cause of your reluctance was?” The sharp lift of those eyes to her own and the faint, abrupt flush makes her have to hide a second smile, before another thought makes her brow furrow. “Would you prefer to be alone, Your Worship? I truly did not mean to intrude on any private time you may require.”  
  
“That's not it, either,” is the low admission, alongside a slight smile. There's another few seconds of silence, and then Trevelyan takes a breath and seems to come to a decision. “I enjoy your company, Lady Montilyet. Probably more than I should, and so the prospect of it makes me nervous.” The breaching of that subject, at long last, flutters peacefully onto the small table between them; settling on the worn surface like a single sheet of carefully crafted paper, and Josephine can't quite tell if she herself is feeling more giddy or proud.  
  
“Why?” she questions softly, and sets her long-abandoned novel aside. She's fairly sure that she already knows why, of course, but she does need to make sure that they talk about this, as well. “I think I've made it increasingly obvious that the feeling is mutual.”  
  
That earns her a brief snort, as well as a faint grin as the Inquisitor's gaze drops to her own lap. “You have,” Trevelyan's agrees wryly, and twiddles her thumbs. “I'll admit that I had my doubts not long ago, but even I'm not quite _that_ dense.”  
  
“Then what are you concerned about?” Carefully, Josephine reaches across the small amount of space between their respective seats, and folds her fingers around the Inquisitor's own. “If you realize that I care as much for you as you presumably do for me?”  
  
“I'm--” The warm hands clench. “I don't want you to expect more than I can provide,” she admits, with a brief lift of her eyes before they drop back down. “There's... a certain level of intimacy that usually comes with this sort of relationship and... I can't offer that. To anyone.”  
  
“Your Wor--” Josephine starts, and then stops again; taking a slow breath as she rises from her chair and lowers herself to a half-seat on the floor so she can better catch those eyes. “Evelyn,” she says instead, softly, and settles the very tips of her fingers on a linen-clad knee. “Do you truly believe that I would care more about having your body than your heart?”  
  
She's expecting... a few possible responses. A short, embarrassed chuckle and a shake of Trevelyan's head, a cough and a mutter and a glance off to the side, or maybe a blush and a half-grin. What she gets, however, is a long, achingly breathless look; wide open and completely stripped of all defense, and then – to Josephine's outright shock – the escape of a single tear and a soft, sudden exhalation as Evelyn blinks rapidly.  
  
”Sorry.” The muttered apology is accompanied by a slow flutter of long lashes, and there's the brief glitter of a second tear before the Inquisitor hastily wipes her eyes; her expression a curious mix of stunned and annoyed as she studies the wetness that transfers to her fingers. ”Haven't done that since I was ten years old.”  
  
“Cried?” she prompts, and frowns a little since she's heard of the injuries the other woman has attained since the Conclave, though she's never seen them with her own eyes.

“For good reasons,” is the low elaboration, followed by a slow breath. “Do you mean that?”  
  
For an answer, Josephine simply lifts herself up. Slowly, so as not to startle, and without breaking away from that widening gaze; slower still when she's close enough to count those long lashes, and close enough to taste the stuttering exhale on her own tongue. Then, warmth; sweet and trembling ever so slightly against her mouth as the Inquisitor's eyes slip shut with a tiny shiver, and those lips, some corner of her mind notes, are even softer than she imagined.  
  
“Josephine...” Her own name is a reverent breath that makes her heart feel as if it could burst at any moment, and when there's the warmth of fine hair and silky skin under the tips of her fingers, there are also careful – almost hesitant – arms reaching for her; a firmer, more confident press of that mouth, and a gentle hold that circles her waist and tugs until she's off the floor entirely and so completely, wonderfully immersed in every lingering trace of herbs and grass and fresh, mountain air that she's drowning and flying and safely at home all at once.  
  
When they part, it's not even by a breath, and there's a warm palm cupping her cheek, a leanly muscled shoulder under her own hand and the faintest brush of a nose against her own that makes her smile; something that's mirrored in those brilliant eyes when their gazes meet again. A faintly calloused thumb is tracing circles over her cheekbone, and Josephine struggles with the contented sigh for all of a single heartbeat before giving into it; chuckling softly when she can actually feel the grin that forms in response.  
  
She does catch that hand, however, after another breath and a long, almost frighteningly peaceful moment of their foreheads touching, and brings it to where she can examine it as she settles back a fraction.  
  
“Do I want to know--” she muses, and purses her lips when she finds a tiny fragment of orange peel between two long fingers. “-- why your hand smells distinctly of citrus?”  
  
Evelyn sucks at her own teeth in a clear effort to hold back a grin, and clears her throat. “Probably not,” she allows a little sheepishly, and her fingers twitch when Josephine's thumb traces the center of her palm. “I'd prefer to kiss you again. If I may?”  
  
There's the faintest undercurrent of uncertainty in that voice, so Josephine brushes her lips against a warm cheek to chase it away. “You, my darling--” she murmurs against the smooth skin. “-- have my explicit permission to kiss me whenever you please.”  
  
“That's a lot of kisses,” is the whispered reply against the corner of her mouth, and the Inquisitor's smile is audible.  
  
“Mmhm. I was counting on it.”  
  
\-----  
  
 _Meanwhile, in the great hall:_  
  
”Oi, Dorian! Why d'ya smell like the arse end of a fruit basket?”  
  
”Not now, Sera.”  
  
”Oooh. That's why my stash was off this morning!”  
  
“... you have a 'stash' of rotten fruit?”  
  
“Sure. Got to be prepared, dontcha?”  
  
“Prepared for wh-- no. Nevermind; I don't want to know. Not now, and possibly not ever. I need to bathe.”  
  
“Suit yourself. Just so y'know, though, there were three missing.”


End file.
